In her salon were heard such singers as Rubini, Lablache, Tamburini, Malibran, Grisi and Persiani.  Yet it was her voice Chopin wished to hear when he lay dying!  Truly hers must have been a marvellous gift of song!  At her salon it was his delight to accompany her with his highly poetical playing.  From what is known of his delicate art as a pianist it is possible to imagine how exquisitely his accompaniments must have both sustained and mingled with that “belle voix de soprano.”  He had a knack of improvising a melody to any poem that happened to take his fancy, and thus he and Delphine would treat to an improvised song the elite of the musical, artistic, literary and social world that gathered in her salon.  It is unfortunate that these improvisations were lightly forgotten by the composer, for he has left us few songs.  Delphine “took as much trouble in giving choice musical entertainments as other people did in giving choice dinners.”  Her salon must have been a resort after the composer’s own heart.

Liszt, who knew Delphine well during Chopin’s lifetime, and from whose letters, as yet untranslated into English, I have been able to unearth a few references to her (the last in May, 1861, nearly twelve years after Chopin died, and the last definite reference to her which I have been able to discover), says that her indescribable and spirited grace made her one of the most admired sovereigns of the society of Paris.  He speaks of her “ethereal beauty” and her “enchanting voice” which enchained Chopin.  Delphine was, in fact, “famous for her rare beauty and fascinating singing.”

No biography of Chopin contains so much as the scrap of a letter either from him to her, or from her to him.  That he should not have written is hardly to be wondered at, considering that letter writing was most repugnant to him.  He would take a long walk in order to accept or decline an invitation in person, rather than indite a brief note.  Moreover, in addition to this trait, he was so often in the salon of the Countess Potocka that much correspondence with her was unnecessary.  I have, however, discovered two letters from her to the composer.  One, written in French, asks him to occupy a seat in her box at a Berlioz concert.  The other is in Polish and is quite long.  It is undated, and there is nothing to show from where it was written.  Evidently, however, she had heard that he was ailing, for she begs him to send her a few words, poste restante, to Aix-la-Chapelle, letting her know how he is.  From this request it seems that she was away from Paris (possibly in or near Poland), but expected to start for the French capital soon and wished to be apprised of his condition at the earliest moment.  The anxious tone of the letter leads me to believe that it was written during the last year of the composer’s life, when the insidious nature of the disease of which he was a victim had become apparent to himself and his friends. . . .  “I cannot,” she writes, “wait so long without news of your health and your plans for the future.  Do not attempt to write to me yourself, but ask Mme. Etienne, or that excellent grandma, who dreams of chops, to let me know about your strength, your chest, your breathing.”